Supposed to Go to Heaven
by Lampito
Summary: ...in which Dean isn't sure if he's going to drown, suffocate or die of embarrassment - he is sure it's ALL BOBBY'S FAULT, though, and he intends to haunt the yard and make all the beer go flat... final chapter up - will Dean get his revenge?
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em, just poke 'em to see what happens. Any similarity between the Little Old Lady in this story and any actual Little Old Ladies is purely coincidental – although while we're on the subject, I suspect the writers of Supernatural of basing the character of Castiel on my geography teacher from high school (he was, reputedly, the second funniest teacher in the staffroom). But Honky Duck is absolutely real.

SUMMARY: Sam and Dean are driving Bobby nuts, so he sends them to help an old friend who has a small problem with a ghost who doesn't seem to realise he's dead. Simple, right? But soon enough, accusations of bad manners, OCD and flatulence are flying… Dean gets kissed like he's never been kissed before, and Sam and Bobby won't stop laughing at him. How do they fix this? Can you overdose on gingerbread? Is Heavenly intervention their only hope? Can you actually rent a skunk by the hour? And where the hell is Honky Duck?

RATING: T, for a bit of language (you try your best, but they do use names to each other, don't they?) and scatological revenge plans.

I've been a bit of a lurker here before, but never thought I could write a story of my own. This idea came to me while I was doing the vacuuming (you'll see why). It's my first time, so please be gentle. Setting could be any time from S4 onwards. Free-to-air hasn't shown S5 Down Under, yet. Sucks to be us.

* * *

The brothers Winchester were knocking around at Bobby's place after a particularly antisocial poltergeist had decided to use Dean for ping-pong practice, and had thrown him into a particularly solid antique bookcase, filled with particularly solid antique books. He sustained a sprained knee, but Sam still had to deploy Bitchface #4™ (You Are Injured Worse Than Me, Jerk, Now Shut Up And Give Me The Keys) to get them on the road to Bobby's yard.

The problem with Damaged Dean was that Damaged Dean didn't like being damaged. Damaged Sam didn't actually like being damaged either, but Damaged Sam was contented enough to find something in Bobby's library to occupy him for as long as it took for damage to heal. In Dean's opinion, it wasn't natural for a body to sit that still and pay attention to one thing for that long. No, Damaged Dean was not as easily amused. Damaged Dean did not like sitting still.

Damaged Dean sat not terribly still on the sofa for several days, channel surfing and being acronymed by Sam – "You can take your R.I.C.E. and shove it, Nurse Ratched, I'm fine… OW!" – until Bobby announced that he'd found them a job. An old acquaintance (with a passing understanding of what extra-curricular activity Bobby took up after his wife died) had called, and asked for his help. It was just a salt and burn, he explained. The ghost wasn't being violent, it just kept popping up at inopportune times, and didn't seem to realise that it had shuffled off this mortal coil.

Dean's knee would be in no danger of further injury, and best of all, it would get Dean and Sam out of his house, because Bobby was pretty sure that if he had to put up with the older Winchester twitching like he had ants in his pants for much longer, then said older Winchester was going to be walking funny for a bit longer, not so much because his knee was sore, but because he was going to have one of Bobby's boots strategically inserted, strangely enough, where Dean had told Sam he could shove his acronym.

"It'll get you two idjits out from under my feet, doing something useful," he'd said, writing down the address for them, "And there are some great small breweries in that part of the country. Tell Lucy I said hello." So they'd hit the road, headed for Montana.

It was in transit that Sam asked his brother,

"Dean, did you think there was something… funny about Bobby?"

"Oh yeah, Sam, Bobby was hilarious," sighed Dean from the passenger side, "Right up to and including the part where he told me that if I didn't stop fidgeting and whining like a six year old kept home with chickenpox, he'd put his foot right up my…"

"No, that's not what I meant," said Sam, privately agreeing with Bobby about the six year old thing, "I mean, did he seem at all, well, strange to you when he told us about this job? Evasive? I kind of got the feeling that he did it with a straight face."

"He did do it with a straight face, Sam, he definitely was not laughing. Believe me, he definitely was not joking when he threatened to kick me in the…"

"I just mean, I had the feeling he was trying very hard not to grin while he was telling us about it," clarified Sam.

"Nah, you heard him, he just wanted us out from under his feet. Frankly, this job is just what I need, I don't like sitting down all day."

"Dean, you have been sitting down all day," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, but I'm sitting down, going somewhere. It's completely different," stated Dean, refolding the map as Sam gave him a brief shot of Bitchface #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?), "Take the next exit, bitch."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

When they arrived at the address Bobby had given them, the door was answered by what Dean immediately thought of as an archetypal LOL – not one of those cat photos that Sam was always laughing at on the internet (stupid things, the captions were always spelled appallingly badly, which should've sent Sam into paroxysms of intellectual outrage, but his little brother mysteriously found them hilarious), but a genuine Little Old Lady: grey hair in a bun, kind wrinkled smiling face, twinkling eyes, and smelling vaguely of roses and cinnamon.

"Oh, you must be Bobby's nephews, Sam and Dean! Which one's which?" she exclaimed in a bright voice, ushering them inside. Dean's nose twitched as the smell of cinnamon became stronger. "Will you boys have something to eat? You must be hungry if you've been on the road."

"That would be wonderful, Mrs Dorsch," smiled Dean, while Sam rolled his eyes with Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One).

"Oh, please, call me Lucy, nobody calls me Mrs Dorsch. Except those annoying Jehovah's Witnesses, hah, and they never used to pester me before Max died… you boys make yourselves at home, I'll be right back."

They settled on the sofa, looking around at a sitting room that was achingly normal: photos, of family presumably, and of dogs, hung on the wall. Lucy returned with a tray bearing sandwiches, coffee, gingerbread cookies and the cutest little apple pie tarts that Dean had ever seen. His face lit up.

"Are those your children?" asked Sam, indicating the photos as Dean bit into an apple tart, making vaguely pornographic appreciative noises.

"Oh, yes, the tribe," she smiled, "Children, and grandchildren – the oldest is not much younger than you, Sam. My husband used to spoil them so badly. 'They're our revenge on our kids, Lucy, so let's enjoy it,' he used to say," she grinned mischievously, and Sam couldn't help but smile back.

"How long ago were you widowed, Lucy?" asked Dean, between tarts.

"Nearly two years, now," she replied, "We were married 45 years. Not a bad effort, I don't think. He used to shovel my baking away just the way you're doing. I used to take him to task over it, and he'd just smirk at me, and say, 'I gotta die of something, Luce,' and shovel it away like he was starving. So," she changed the subject, "Bobby told you why I need your help?"

"Bobby told us all about your… problem, Mrs Dor… Lucy," Sam assured her, "Is there anything you'd like to tell us yourself about your… problem?"

Lucy sighed a little. "A ghost, Sam. Call it what it is. An adorable, silly ghost. He doesn't cause trouble, he just… pops up from time to time. This was his home - I think he just hasn't figured out that he's not supposed to be here any more. Frankly, I think his mind was wandering a bit, at the end. He's not doing any harm, except perhaps for scaring the Jehovah's Witnesses away – I'd be happy for him to stay around just for that, but… it's not right. He doesn't belong here. Bobby said it would be straightforward to deal with, send him on his way. What does it involve?" She looked keenly at them.

"Er, well, if you can just tell us where he's buried…"

"Oh, I can show you that," she said airily, pouring more coffee, "What do you have to do?"

"Er," continued Sam, "Well, we have to, um, scatter some, um, salt around, and, and…" she continued watching him as he stuttered into silence.

"We have to dig up the grave and salt and burn the bones," finished Dean. "This gingerbread is wonderful, Lucy."

Sam was too astonished to offer Dean any bitchface at all when Lucy's expression turned thoughtful. "That must be a bit… gruesome," she mused, "Do you do much of that?" Dean too was a little nonplussed.

"Er, yeah, actually, we do a lot of that. The idea doesn't… upset you?" he asked.

Lucy said matter-of-factly "Young man, I've seen a husband, one of my sons, and more pets than I can count into the ground. Corpses hold no terrors for me. They're just the dead meat left behind. The important bit is supposed to go to Heaven." She sighed. "It would be just like Max to hang around. He was incredibly intelligent – for a male, anyway (she smiled a little mischievously again) – but sometimes, in some ways, he could be incredibly dumb, too."

"Well, we can take care of it for you, and let Max rest in peace," said Sam.

"I'll be sad to see him go completely, but I think it's for the best," said Lucy, starting to clear the mugs and plates. "When can you do this?"

"Usually we deal with this sort of thing after dark," began Dean, as Lucy cut in again,

"Well, why don't you boys come by tonight, I can show you where Max is buried, then you can wash up here and join me for dinner?"

"That would be very kind of you, Lucy, we'd love to accept," replied Dean, before Sam could raise any objections about intruding. She smiled.

"Well, that's settled. Would you like me to bag up some gingerbread for you, Dean?"

"Oh, Lucy, would you? Could I have one of those little pies, too?" asked Dean, with his own version of irresistible puppy-dog eyes. Lucy laughed.

"I'd swear, that's exactly the face Max used to pull when he was trying to wheedle more gingerbread out of me. You boys stay put, I'll be right back."

As soon as she'd headed back to the kitchen, Sam turned to Dean to accuse him of shameless greed. "Hunger, Sammy, not greed, hunger. I'm going to get hungry between now and then. Especially if we're going to be digging up a grave. Gotta get fuelled up first, and gingerbread sounds like a perfect way to…" he stopped, sniffed, and pulled a disgusted face at his brother. "Oh, gross, dude, you disgusting, toxic creature…"

Sam stopped mid-lecture, looking bewildered. "What? What? Dean, what the hell are you… oh. Oh. God. Oh, that's… that's beyond vile…"

"Jesus, Sam, you have the gall to accuse me of having no manners!" Dean hissed, trying to talk and hold his breath at the same time. "Ugh! That stinks! You couldn't wait until we got outside?"

Sam stared at him in disbelief. "What? Hey, it wasn't me!"

"Yeah, right, Toxic Taco Boy," muttered Dean, waving a hand in a useless attempt to dispel the pungent stench that had suddenly manifested in the room.

"Dean, it wasn't me!" replied Sam, a tad frantically, "I haven't eaten anything resembling Mexican for what, three weeks now? We've been at Bobby's for nearly a week, you've seen what I've eaten!"

"Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Is that a new trick? You eat a burrito, and your stomach holds it in reserve for three weeks? Oh God, I'm dying here, I need air…"

"Hey! I know it wasn't me! It was you, wasn't it? Don't you dare blame this on me, it's not like you excrete lavender. I knew I shouldn't have let you stop at that micro brewery, that stout has done something seriously chemical to your digestion."

"…A gas mask, a damp handkerchief, anything…" Dean looked at Sam, clearly disbelieving. "Wait, are you trying to convince me that… that sweet old lady… cropdusted us?"

"Dean, I'm telling you. It. Wasn't. Me. I thought it was you!" Sam spluttered and gasped, and looked every bit as horrified as Dean was. "Oh, God, that is just putrid…"

"Sam, I want to believe you, really, I do, but if there's one thing that I've learned, it's that nobody else but you, nobody, can take a perfectly innocent burrito, and turn it into a chemical warfare agent quite as deadly, as gross, and sulphurous as you…"

Lucy returned from the kitchen, and they both bolted up from the sofa, scuttling towards her, and hopefully away from the smell. She didn't seem to notice anything, she just smiled and held out a paper bag.

"I'll see you boys later," she said, handing over the bag of goodies, which Dean clutched at slightly desperately. "Should I make pie?"

"Pie would be awesome," squeaked Dean, as Sam shot him Bitchface #2™ again. "We'll get out of your hair, now, and see you tonight." They made their exit rather more quickly than was strictly necessary, gasping with relief at the fresh air outside.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Dean spent the afternoon channel surfing and eating gingerbread, while Sam pecked away at his laptop.

"I don't know why you think there's anything to look up," said Dean, talking around a mouthful, "She said she'll show us where he's buried. Way quicker than wandering around a graveyard. OCD, Sam – you can get treatment for it, you know."

"Yeah, well, if I can find it, we might be able to save ourselves and Lucy a trip," replied Sam. "There's two cemeteries locally, but I can't find a Max Dorsch in either of them." He winced at his brother. "Do you have to chew so loudly?"

"Don't listen so hard. Dude, this gingerbread is awesome," grinned Dean, proffering the bag. "You want some?"

"No, thank you. I suppose 'Max' could be a nickname – there's a Matthew Dorsch who died a couple of years ago…"

"We'll ask Lucy, to make sure," decided Dean. "Sure you don't want any?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Just don't make yourself sick, okay? I'm still not convinced that smell today wasn't from you. Could you at least not talk with your mouth full?"

"All the more for me," smirked Dean. "Maybe we can get some for the road, too."

"Maybe she's trying to fatten you up, and she's going to shove you into the oven and eat you for dinner tonight," grumbled Sam. "If I'm lucky."

….. oOo …..

That evening, as the sun went down, they returned to Lucy's house, where the mouth-watering smell of a roasting chicken hung in the air.

"Maybe she is trying to fatten me up," mused Dean, as Lucy led them through the house, out the back door and into her back yard.

"I have a shovel in the garage," she said, "And I think there's some road salt too, and maybe some kerosene. Will that do?"

"We have everything we need in the car, Lucy," Sam assured her. "So, shall we get going? You can show us where Max is buried, then we'll bring you home, take care of things, and meet you back here for dinner."

Lucy gave him a strange look. "There's no need to go anywhere, Sam, he's right here." She indicated a low, grassy mound under an apple tree. "I had him buried right there. It was his favourite spot to sit on a sunny day. I thought he'd like it. "

The Winchesters blinked at each other. A backyard burial was unusual, but not entirely unheard of.

"What happens if Max shows up while you're trying to dig him up? Won't he get in the way?" asked Lucy, sounding a little worried.

"No problem, Lucy, we use shotgun rounds loaded with rock salt," Dean assured her. "We'll take care of things here, you go on back inside."

"Well, then, I'll get that pie in the oven," she smiled, returning to the house. Sam and Dean headed for the Impala.

"Dude, is it just me, or is it kind of creepy burying your husband in the backyard?" said Dean, standing guard with one of the shotguns just in case a hitherto harmless ghost suddenly decided he didn't want his mortal remains tampered with. Lucy waved to him through the kitchen window. He smiled, and waved back.

Sam didn't pause with the shovel. "Well, people deal with death and bereavement in many ways," he said, "In some cultures, the dead are buried close to the family home, or their remains undergo a preservation process, and the corpse is kept in the house…"

"Yeah, but, well, say one day someone decides they want to put in a vegetable patch, and one minute they're planting potatoes, the next, they're digging up pieces of Grandpa Max…"

"Well, generally the soil doesn't have to be cultivated this deep to plant vegetables," replied Sam, "And you wouldn't put a vegetable garden right under a tree like this, anyway…"

"Or," continued Dean, warming to his theme, "Say you planted the potatoes, and everything went all right until it came time to harvest them, and then you dug up the potatoes, and ALL THE POTATOES looked EXACTLY like Grandpa Max…"

"Dean, potatoes are not usually terribly occult. They're quite boring, that way."

"Or what if, what if some family with kids moves in one day, and the kids want a trampoline for Christmas, and so Dad comes out in the back yard, and starts digging a hole to put in a ground level trampoline…"

"Trampoline? Who'd put a trampoline underneath a tree?" asked Sam reasonably, but Dean ignored him and continued,

"…And he's in the yard, with the dog, and he's digging the hole, and suddenly he notices that the dog has an extra bone that nobody gave it, and…"

"Dean!" Sam paused, leaning on the shovel. "There won't be anything left anyway, will there, after we've done the salting and burning? Innocent potatoes and trampolining tots will be perfectly safe."

"Yeah, but what if…"

"Dean, you can shut up, or you can wear the next shovelful of dirt," said Sam, "Choice is yours, bro."

Dean subsided, and turned to scan the yard again. There was no sign of any annoyed ghost. Maybe he really was just a bit lost, and needed an extra nudge to be on his way. "Okay, okay. Can you dig faster? I'm getting hungry, and that chicken smells really good."

"Just about there, I think," said Sam, "Get the salt… oh my God, Dean, you are the most disgusting individual, seriously, no more boutique beer for you, ever."

Winding up to accuse his brother of furtive flatulence, Sam turned just in time to see Dean be flattened by a large dog.

It ran at him, with a slightly arthritic but enthusiastic gait, then leapt, front paws hitting Dean's shoulders, knocking him to the ground with a happy woof.

"Yaaaaaarghgeddooooff!" howled Dean, as the dog barked excitedly, tail wagging furiously, licking his face vigorously and drooling copiously as it did so. He batted at the dog with the stock of the shotgun, but it didn't seem to be at all deterred – if anything, the impromptu wrestling match seemed to be interpreted as a game, and encouraged it to redouble its kissing efforts. The long tail wagged even harder.

Sam leapt from the hole, and stood unable to do anything except laugh as he watched his brother try to escape from his ardent admirer.

"Saaaaaaaam gedditoffmeeeeee!" Dean gasped, as his shirt and hair darkened with dog dribble.

"You got a new best friend, bro, whatever aftershave you're wearing, he's diggin' it…" Sam lost what was left of his composure, and laughed harder. "Man, you two should get a room, Dean… Dean?" He suddenly noticed that his brother was genuinely gasping for breath. "Okay, that's enough, Fido," he said, stepping in to pull the animal off his brother…

But the smell hit him like a physical force. That smell. It was practically solid.

It was the dog. It was friendly – very friendly - but it was huge, and it STUNK.

Dean was turning blue. Dean was suffocating in the smell. Or possibly drowning in the drool – there seemed to be gallons of it. No, definitely the smell, decided Sam, holding his breath, reaching forward to grab the animal by the scruff of the neck. The smell battered against him, driving him back, and he felt his stomach threaten to rebel.

The dog's head came up briefly to give him a happy woof – fresh waves of the nauseating miasma washed over him as it did so – then it returned its attention to kissing Dean lavishly.

Sam blinked and staggered, his head spinning. Dean Winchester, fearless Hunter of ghastly things that man ought not wot of, was being loved to death by an elderly dog with industrial strength gastric problems.

Bobby will never believe this, Sam thought.

Frantically, he groped to pick up the shovel, figuring that a good whacking with a solid garden tool should distract the most besotted admirer, even from Dean's boyish good looks and undeniable charm, when a Voice suddenly rang out loudly from the direction of the house.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?"

The dog immediately stopped making out with Dean and lifted its head, looking back towards the house where Lucy stood at the bottom of the back steps, bristling with outraged authority.

"LEAVE IT!"

Sam recognised the Voice. It was the Voice Of Command. He'd heard his father use it often enough. It was the Voice that told you What To Do Right Now, the Voice that Brooked No Argument, the Voice that bypassed the higher thought processes and went straight to the hindbrain, bypassing the outrage lobe…

And it worked. The dog got off Dean, who rolled the other way, gasping for breath.

"COME!"

With a bark the animal rushed at Lucy, but somehow the enormous bulk managed to stop beforehand, sitting right in front of her.

"HEEL!"

It walked behind her, coming to sit at her left side.

"STAY!"

The dog sat, tail still wagging, as Lucy left it, and rushed to where Sam was helping Dean to sit up. Dean was coughing and spluttering, drenched in dribble, swiping frantically at his tongue.

"My mouf, Tham, my mouf, ith tongue wend righd indo my MOUF…"

"Dean!" Immediate threat over and his brother clearly alive enough to complain, Sam was only interested in determining whether Dean had been injured. Physically, he was fine. However, his dignity had sustained terrible cosmetic damage, as had his shirt and his hair.

"…Righd indo my MOUF, Tham! I thwallowed ith spit! It wend up my node!"

"Your node?" queried Sam, relieved that his brother was okay, eyeing the dog warily.

"Yeth, up my node! Ith drool wend UP – MY – NODE! Oh, God, gaaaaargh, the thmell, I'll never ged thad thmell oud of thith third, or my hair, or my thkin, I'm doomed, Tham…"

"Dean, you're fine," said Sam, "You just got a bit… ruffled up, is all."

"…I'm doomed, I'm going to thmell like thith for ETHER! I'll nether get laid again!"

Lucy reached them, and handed the dishcloth she held to Dean, who wiped desperately at his tongue with it. She stood wringing her hands in her apron.

"Oh, I am SO sorry!" she said, "I am SO sorry, and SO embarrassed! I don't know where to put my face!"

"It's all right, Lucy, no real harm done," Sam reassured her, giving Dean a nudge when the older Winchester let out a squawk of protest at that assertion, "We're nearly done now." He looked at the dog again. It was an aged German Shepherd, portly of girth, grey of muzzle, cloudy of eyes, and relentlessly happy of expression. "He's a friendly fella, isn't he?"

"Oh, he was like that as a puppy, and never changed," smiled Lucy, handing Dean another dishcloth, "Always loving to meet and greet – every new acquaintance, a new special best friend." The dog watched them, grinning his doggy grin, tail wagging, but stayed obediently where he had been told to.

"What did you feed him last, toxic waste? Dead skunks? Dead skunks marinated in toxic waste?" Dean stopped wiping his tongue, and was making futile efforts to mop off some of the drool that had soaked him more or less from head to waist. "His breath could knock down walls! And as for that smell…"

Lucy looked both sheepish and appalled. "Ah, yes. I truly am sorry. It's a problem that old dogs can suffer from. They can get a bit… gassy. Excitement can make it worse, I'm afraid." She glanced towards the hole Sam had been digging. "Will you be all right to finish up here tonight?"

"No problem, Lucy, we're nearly done," said Sam, hauling Dean to his feet, "Although really, it would've been better if you could've warned us about your dog first."

Lucy stared at him, confused. "Warned you about my dog?"

"Yeah, warned us about your dog," echoed Dean, still mopping helplessly, "You know, the dog that likes to meet and greet people, jump on them, kiss them into submission…"

"I don't understand," said Lucy, "Bobby told me that you were old hands at dealing with this sort of thing."

"…and, and, flatulate them to death, and stick its tongue RIGHT INTO MY MOUTH…" Dean's voice was becoming a little shrill, so Sam nudged him again.

"It's okay, Lucy, really, if you could just keep the dog out of the way while we finish up?"

She eyed him curiously, still frowning in some confusion. "Well, all right, but I'm a bit rusty." They watched in astonishment as she bent to pick up the other shotgun, and stationed herself between the hole and the porch. "Although really, I'm surprised a couple of big boys like you'd need my help…"

As she spoke the dog barked again and, tongue lolling, made a furious dash at Dean. She sighed, hefted the gun, and let off a shot at the dog.

With another happy woof, it disappeared in an expanding scatter of rock salt. She lowered the gun, and turned to Sam.

"Best get digging again Sam, he'll be back now he thinks he's found a friend. It's all Charlie's fault, really, feeding him so much gingerbread."

Sam and Dean gaped at her. "Charlie?" said Dean, when he managed to find his voice. "Charlie? Who the hell is Charlie?"

Lucy looked at him with the expression of a tolerant kindergarten teacher discovering that one of her slower-witted charges has rubbed the blue paint into his hair – again – and licked out the pot afterwards. "Charlie. My husband. He taught the dog to take pieces of gingerbread out of his mouth. That's probably why he came after you, Dean, you smelled – and tasted – of gingerbread. DROP!"

At the sound of the Voice, Sam and Dean found their legs automatically folding under them, and they heard the rock salt whizz overhead, lifting their eyes just in time to see the dog – who had also dropped on command – on the other side of the hole, woofing excitedly before disappearing again. "Just like I told Bobby – silly old thing doesn't' seem to realise he's dead." She glanced at her watch. "Can we get a move on, do you think? Only I have to baste the chicken."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sam was impressed, he really was, with the way Dean refrained from exploding then and there.

They finished the slightly sad task of exposing Max's mortal remains, then salting and burning them while the dog's ghost sat watching the proceedings from the other side of the hole, woofing encouragement from time to time, then breaking off to chase his tail. Lucy smiled at him, saying "Go on now, you daft old man, get a move on!", and with a last cheerful woof and a parting waft of truly demonic intestinal gases, Max's shade dissolved into the evening shadows.

"Well, that's something of a relief," Lucy sighed, flapping a hand in front of her face, "Why don't you come on in and get cleaned up for dinner? Guest bathroom is that way, on the left."

She served up dinner, a roasted chicken with all the trimmings, and offered them beer. Sam did his best to make pleasant conversation, occasionally kicking Dean under the table as warranted.

"So," said Dean, in a tone that Sam recognised as dangerously polite, viciously stabbing a potato with rather more force than was really necessary to subdue a roasted vegetable, "That was Max. Max, the dog. Max, the big dog. Max, the big, flatulent dog who's dead…"

"Yes," replied Lucy, "That was Max. May he rest in peace now. Less fragrant peace, hopefully…"

"He was, er, very well behaved. As a dog. And a ghost," commented Sam, "And he seemed quite, er, happy. Ghosts often get quite, er, angry if they show up when we try to move them on."

"He had his UDX title before he turned four, you know," said Lucy proudly, "And his Obedience Champion within the year after that. Old Max didn't have a mean bone in his body. He was one of the happiest, friendliest dogs I've ever known."

"Oh, yeah, friendly," said Dean, smiling with clenched teeth, making sure the potato (that didn't look like anybody in particular, Sam noted idly) was really dead, "Real friendly, although it would've been nice if he'd at least bought me a drink before he tried to get quite that friendly…"

Sam gave Dean another kick under the table, and shot him a warning scowl. Lucy didn't seem to notice. She swatted good-naturedly at Sam later when he offered to help clear the plates later. "You two stay put, and I'll get the pie. Cream or ice-cream Dean?"

Dean was mollified somewhat by two large helpings of very good cherry pie (with cream and ice-cream), and Lucy's insistence that she would do their laundry from the evening's excavations and amorous canine encounter, and he managed to mind his manners until they made their goodbyes, arranging to return the next day to pick up their clothes. He even managed to remain civil for the trip back to their motel, right up until Sam called Bobby to let him know the job was done.

"So, how did you two chuckleheads go with Lucy's problem?" Bobby's voice crackled over the cell phone speaker. Sam wasn't sure whether it was the line, or stifled laughter.

"Oh, no problem, Bobby, nothing that a bathtub of mouthwash and maybe a couple of tankerloads of triple-strength Febreze won't fix," replied Dean, "YOU TREACHEROUS OLD…"

"I knew it!" said Sam, "I knew there was something you weren't telling us, Bobby!"

"THE STENCH NEARLY SUFFOCATED ME!"

"You didn't think to add, 'Oh, by the way, the ghost you're laying t o rest is a dog that smells like the inside of a sewer after the International Chilli Festival hits town'?" continued Sam.

"EXCEPT BEFORE I COULD SUFFOCATE I PRACTICALLY DROWNED IN ITS DROOL! IT WENT UP MY NOSE!"

Sam would've sworn that he could hear Bobby grinning at the other end of the line.

"IT'S TONGUE WENT RIGHT IN MY MOUTH, BOBBY, THE DAMNED THING MADE OUT WITH ME!"

Bobby's attempts to stifle his laughter failed. "I'm sure I didn't leave out anything really important," he said innocently, "Although, I could've been a bit distracted, what with you two idjits driving me mad, and having to expend so much energy in preventing myself from putting my foot right up Dean's…"

"Hey! I was good! I was quiet!" Sam practically wailed, "I was just reading and minding my own business…"

"How the hell does a ghost dog fart or slobber, anyway?" raged Dean, not losing any momentum, "It's dead! I was fumigated and Frenched by a dead dog, Bobby, and it's all your fault!"

"I did wonder about that," mused Sam, "Seeing as physical manifestation like ectoplasm is usually only present with a really, really angry spirit."

"Maybe it's the intensity of feeling that does it," suggested Bobby, "Max really was one of the happiest dogs ever born. He visited here with Lucy and Charlie, years ago; he and Rumsfeld ran around and played all day like they were puppies, idjit animals. Maybe that much happiness and friendliness just can't help but leak across into the physical realm."

"Leak? Leak?" Dean stared at the phone in disbelief. "Bobby, this dog didn't leak, it oozed, it pumped, it gushed! And if that's what canine friendliness smells like, then I think I'd rather have a hellhound for a pet!"

"Well, sounds like you two idjits have had a big day," said Bobby, "You'd better put your brother to bed, Sam, sounds like he's getting overtired and cranky."

"Oh, you bet I'm cranky, Bobby, and when I see you, I'm going to show you just how cranky I am when I kick you so hard in the…"

"Yeah, sounds like a good idea, Bobby," cut in Sam, slapping his brother on the arm, "We'll head on back tomorrow."

"Okay, boys, I'll see you later." Yep, Sam was sure he could hear Bobby grinning on the other end of the line.

"I'm going to catch a chupacabra," Dean was muttering, "And feed it cabbage and chilli, then I'm going to feed it laxatives, then I'm going to let it go in his house…" he looked at his brother thoughtfully. "Or maybe I'll just feed you Tex Mex all the way back, and lock you in his study…"

Sam rolled his eyes, taking his boots off. "Go take another shower and calm down, Dean. Job's done, no injuries, and I'm betting that when we drop by Lucy's tomorrow, you'll get enough gingerbread to last you all the way back to Bobby's." He sniffed. "Ewwww, wash your hair again, I think you missed a bit."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

They swung by Lucy's house the next morning. She had their clothes washed and folded, and, as Sam had predicted, a bag of gingerbread for Dean.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you boys," she said, as they made their goodbyes, "Drive carefully, and tell that grumpy old man not to be a stranger."

"We will, Lucy," replied Sam, as Dean crammed a piece of gingerbread into his mouth, and smiled.

"Mmmmmm, well, let's get going, Sam, daylight's burning, and my right foot has an appointment with Bobby's…" he broke off, sniffing at the morning air. "Oh, crap, Sam, do I have to put you in the trunk?"

Sam sniffed too, and inspected the underside of his boots. "Damn, I must've stepped in something…"

He turned back to see Dean with his face frozen mid-chew, saying, "Oh, no…"

He followed his brother's gaze to the other end of the garden.

Max's ghost was sitting under a tree. He barked a greeting at them, tail sweeping gently back and forth on the ground behind him.

Sam stared in disbelief. "What the?... we salted and burned him! We salted and burned you!" he said, raising his voice and addressing the dog, "Go… I dunno, go where you're supposed to go! Off to doggy Heaven! Shoo!"

Dean was equally astonished. "We must've missed something," he muttered, dribbling crumbs, "We didn't get him all. A collar, maybe? A brush? Come on, Sam, we have to ask Lucy what we might've missed… aaaaaaaaargh!" as he took a step back towards the house, Max barked again, and began his enthusiastic, slightly arthritic run towards Dean.

"Throw the gingerbread, Dean!" shouted Sam, "He's after the gingerbread!"

Dean hurled the bag aside. The dog ignored it, still making a creaky but determined beeline for him. Sam figured out what the problem was.

"You've got a mouthful of it, Dean!" he yelled, "Ditch it!" Dean's eyes bugged as he chewed desperately at the sticky mouthful, backing towards the house as fast as his recovering knee would let him.

Max was preparing to leap when, out of options, Sam bellowed,

"SIT!"

The dog slid to a halt, and his haunches hit the ground. He raised a paw, and whuffed at Dean, who breathed a sigh of relief, spraying crumbs. Max whined pitifully, but didn't move. Lucy chose that moment to emerge from her front door.

"Did I hear yelling? Boys, what's… oh, Max, why are you back again?" she said, catching sight of the dog. Not having any luck with Dean, the dog trotted towards her, sitting in front of her, licking his chops. She frowned at Dean. "You haven't been feeding him gingerbread, have you?" she asked, "It makes his gut trouble worse, you know…"

"No!" replied Dean, finally swallowing the last of his gingerbread, "We were about to leave, and he just appeared again."

"We must have missed something," Sam explained, "Something that gives him a connection to this place. Is there anything that might have, say, his fur on it? A bed, a brush, a collar?"

"You'd better come back inside," sighed Lucy. She turned to the dog and addressed him severely. "Not you! If you're going to make that terrible smell, you go sit out back! Outside!" Max woofed cheerfully, and disappeared.

Inside, she went to a small cupboard under the stairs. "This was his bed blanket," she said, removing an old tartan rug, "I've washed it, but it will still has some hair on it. The hair gets into everything. Here's his brush. There's a box of his toys, too." She dragged a box out of the cupboard. "He used to leave them all over the house. Could they be a problem?"

"If he picked them up in his mouth, yes," said Sam, inspecting the box of rubber bones, tug toys, stuffed animals and squeaky items. "Did he play with them often?"

"Oh, all the time, since he was tiny," said Lucy, "It was like having a three-year-old in the house, sometimes, if you got up to go to the bathroom at night, you stood a fair chance of turning an ankle on a stuffed rabbit, or scaring yourself to death with a squeaky hamburger."

"I'm afraid we'll have to burn them," Sam told her, "They're probably what's holding him here."

"Well, I'd only have thrown them out eventually, anyway," decided Lucy, "Let's take 'em out back."

In the backyard, they piled the items in a metal trashcan. Dean gave them a liberal sprinkling of lighter fluid. "Is that everything?" he asked.

"Yes, I packed them all up after he died… oh, wait," Lucy corrected herself, "We're missing Honky Duck."

Sam and Dean blinked at each other. "Honky Duck?"

"Honky Duck," confirmed Lucy, "It was a rubber chicken thing, but the squeaker sort of collapsed, and it quacked or honked rather than squeaked. It was his favourite. I don't see it here." She looked at them. "He must've left it somewhere in the house. He was getting a bit forgetful as he got older."

The Winchesters spent the next hour with Lucy, scouring the house for Honky Duck. Dean's temper gradually frayed as he squirmed behind furniture, under beds, and into cupboards and crawl spaces, anywhere a determined old dog might've hidden a favourite treasure.

"Maybe I'll just go to a cat shelter," he mused to himself, crawling under a sofa bed, "Ask for the oldest, sickest, most incontinent cat they have, and let it go in Bobby's bedroom… Aha!" His torch beam caught something yellow, and he emerged with a squeaky toy, returning to the kitchen. "The great hunter has stalked and subdued his prey," he announced, giving the toy a squeeze. Its prolapsed squeaker made a strangely comical quacking honk.

Honky Duck went into the trashcan with the other toys. Max reappeared and watched the proceedings avidly, occasionally chasing his tail while waiting to see if some new game was about to start. His ears pricked up at the sight of his old toy, but he stayed sat when Lucy told him to. The toys were duly set alight.

"Go on, now," Lucy said to the dog, "This time, you get along where you should be. Good boy!" Max cocked his head adorably and woofed cheerily, then dissolved into the sunbeams.

"Oh, you're all dirty again," Lucy said despairingly, watching the Winchesters try fruitlessly to dust themselves off.

"No harm done, Lucy, clothes can be washed," said Sam. She insisted that they at least stay for some morning tea, apologising profusely for having put them to such trouble.

Two pieces of the pie later, Dean was feeling considerably happier: the sun was shining, Lucy had pressed even more gingerbread (and some apple tarts) upon him, and best of all, there was no sign of Max. His knee was feeling better, so he took the keys from Sam – it felt good to be behind the wheel of his baby again. Lucy waved them goodbye from the front gate as they hit the road. He smiled contentedly.

"What are you grinning at?" asked Sam suspiciously.

"What's not to grin at?" replied Dean, fishing around in the paper bag on the seat beside him, "It's a beautiful day, I'm driving my girl, another satisfied customer, Max is in doggy Heaven, and…" he pulled a cookie from the bag, "The satisfied customer happens to make the best damned gingerbread I think I've ever tasted. Plus," his smile became ever so slightly evil, "I now have a couple of days on the road to plan my revenge on Bobby."

"Dean, you're being very childish about this."

"Says he who wasn't the one who was nearly farted to death by a dead dog. I was thinking about an incontinent cat, probably less trouble than a chupacabra, but I think I need to get more up close and personal. Would you give me a hand, say, you distract him while I rub dog crap into his hat?"

Sam winced – he felt a headache coming on. It was going to be a long drive.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

After a day of listening to Dean's revenge fantasies – he had called a halt to that topic after Dean had wondered out loud if there was such a thing as a skunk petting zoo, and whether you could hire a skunk by the hour of if you had to take one for a whole day – Sam was grateful to pull into a motel and collapse on one of the beds. Listening to Dean plotting was absolutely exhausting, but he was afraid that if he fell asleep, he would only dream of tapdancing skunks, possibly juggling rotten eggs…

Dean sat on his bed, channel surfing and eating gingerbread. Again. "I might go find me a bar, Sammy," he announced, "Wanna come with me?"

"Nah, I'm good here," replied Sam, not moving. A shower, and a nap, and a handful of aspirin, that's all he wanted… oh, and a complete absence of skunks.

"I'm gonna clean up, then," said Dean, taking clean clothes and heading for the bathroom. "I'll be back for dinner later, honey." Sam sat up, flipped his brother off, pulled out his laptop, thought better of it, and collapsed back onto the bed.

He was dozing when, five minutes later, a bloodcurdling shriek sounded from the bathroom. He was awake and running for the door, gun in hand, before the scream ended.

"Dean!" Sam burst into the bathroom, looking for the threat.

Dean stood in the tub, at the shower end, clutching the shower curtain around himself.

Max sat at the other end of the tub, tongue lolling, grinning at Dean.

A now-familiar odour assailed Sam's nose.

"It's here! It's here!" yelled Dean, "What's it doing here? Get out!" he flapped a hand angrily at the dog.

Max cocked his head, and gave him full-beam Sammy eyes.

Sam lowered his gun, and sighed. His headache was coming back. "It's okay, I'll try to get him outside, just stay put," he said, throwing a towel to his brother. He backed out of the bathroom, then scrabbled in the paper bag for a piece of gingerbread.

"Max! Come!" he called. The ghostly dog immediately appeared, trotting towards him and sitting, licking his chops, eyes on the cookie.

"Max! I've got a cookie for you! Cookie!" said Sam chirpily, as Max whuffed happily and danced from one front paw to the other, waves of eye-watering smell wafting off him. "Good boy! Now, take it outside! Outside!" Max took the cookie carefully from Sam, and disappeared obediently, thankfully taking the worst of his aroma with him.

Dean emerged from the bathroom, dressed and slightly damp, waving his arms in exasperation. "What the hell happened?" he asked the universe in general, "What the hell just happened? One minute I'm taking a shower, the next, a damned ghost, one that I've salted and burned, is sitting there, staring at me! How the hell did that happen?"

"Whoa, Dean, calm down!" said Sam, "There must be an explanation. There must be something in the bathroom that he's connected to. Something on you? Something on your clothes?"

"It can't be me, I've just washed me," said Dean. "Ohhh, I am so going to kill Bobby for this job, I totally am…"

A closer inspection of Dean's clothes revealed that they were covered in hair. Short, fine, tan-coloured hair. Dog hair. A bit more inspection showed that Sam's belongings were similarly speckled.

A horrible suspicion started to form in Sam's mind. "Just let me look something up," he said, starting up the laptop.

"Yeah, you get on it, Sam," encouraged Dean, "Find us a way to send this stupid mutt on his way. Aren't all dogs supposed to go to Heaven? Isn't a German Shepherd supposed to be intelligent? How does he not know this? WHAT WAS HE DOING WATCHING ME TAKE A SHOWER?"

Sam's search was short: in less than ten seconds, he had multiple hits on forums discussing the owning and care of German Shepherds. He learned three things:

One, German Shepherd owners are a teensy bit mad.

Two, German Shepherds shed. All year round. A lot.

Three, German Shepherd hair is the most insidious, adhesive, persistent substance known to humankind, and possibly the rest of the galaxy.

"Listen to these", said Sam, " 'Shiloh sheds his own body weight in undercoat every Winter, I'm sure. ' 'I have collected enough hair from Mack in the last couple of years to stuff some cushions – they're lovely and soft!' 'I collected Kali's sheddings, and a friend spun it all into yarn – I knitted a scarf.' 'I'm convinced that if I kept brushing Kaiser until he didn't lose any more hair, I'd be left with nothing but a pile of fur, and a little black nose…' oh, no," he groaned, his heart sinking, "Listen to this one: 'Bayla died two years ago, and I still get a bagful of her hair every time I vacuum. In her own way, this dog will never leave me!' You can even buy a coffee mug that says, 'Everything Tastes Better With Dog Hair In It!' " He turned a despairing expression to Dean. "It's the hair. He must've left shed fur all over that house, while he was alive…"

"And we got covered in it, crawling around looking for Honky Duck," finished Dean gloomily, inspecting his things more closely. "It's on everything, look, it's on my jacket, it's on my duffel… it'll be in the car, in my baby…" he looked stricken at the very thought.

As if to confirm the hypothesis, Max reappeared, walking through the wall, to lay down on the floor with a contented humph.

"He hardly smells," noted Dean faintly, "Maybe he's not so excited around us now. He's becoming accustomed to us. Oh, goody."

"Dean," said Sam in a small voice, "We are screwed. We are going to be followed forever by a dead, drooling, flatulent, happy dog whose only need is the occasional gingerbread cookie."

"Oh no, we're not," growled Dean, a sudden determined look crossing his face. "Desperate situations call for desperate measures." He turned to face Max, narrowing his eyes. "All right, Rin Tin Tin, we've tried to be nice. We tried to help you. Time to play rough." He stood in the middle of the room and bellowed to the ceiling,

"Cas! CAS! Get down here, this is an honest-to-Your-Dad EMERGENCY we got on our hands here!"

* * *

You really can buy that coffee mug. And the thing with the dog hair, that's real, too.


	7. Chapter 7

... a moment of silence, please, to mourn the passing of the real Honky Duck. He's just been thrust into my lap (covered in drool, natch), and he is suffering from a sucking chest wound that is pretty much fatal. From the sound of it, Squeaky Bunny is next. The horror, the horror...

* * *

Chapter 7

"Cas! We're going to at least DEFCON 2 here, I'm not kid… aaargh! Dude! Personal space!" Dean jumped away as Castiel appeared standing practically on top of him.

"My apologies. What is the problem, Dean?" the angel asked, getting straight to the point.

Dean pointed to where Max lounged contentedly on the floor. "That, Cas, THAT is the problem!"

Castiel looked at the dog. Max looked back at the angel. Then they both looked at Dean, and cocked their heads to the same side, which creeped Dean out.

"Torkelli Prime Suspect. Kennel name, Max. He earned the titles Obedience Champion and Tracking Dog Excellent," announced Castiel. "He was euthanized three months ago with mitral valve failure due to his advanced age. Thirteen years is a long life for such a large specimen of this breed."

"Yes! Exactly!" said Dean.

"I do not understand," said Castiel, "What does this animal's spirit have to do with your problem?"

"Cas, he IS the problem!" said Dean. "We salted and burned him, and all his toys, and his blanket, but he won't leave!"

"Why is he still here?" asked Castiel.

"Dog hair," sighed Sam, "German Shepherds shed. A lot. He spent those thirteen years shedding in his owner's house. His fur is everywhere: in the carpets, in the furniture, in the drapes, in the mattresses, everywhere."

"Burn down the house," suggested Castiel promptly. "That would destroy all the hair."

"Actually, it wouldn't," continued Sam, "Because we got covered in it while we were looking for Honky Duck," he ignored the questioning look Castiel gave him, "Don't ask, okay, just… we ended up covered in it, so now it's in our clothes, our stuff, our car…"

"Then burn down the car."

"WE ARE NOT SETTING FIRE TO MY CAR!" shouted Dean, his eyes wide with horror. "You go near my car with anything flammable and I swear, Feather Boy, I will set YOU on fire and see how you like it!"

"There is no need to set me on fire, Dean, I can tell you without any empirical experimentation that I would not like it," said Castiel, "It would damage the clothes that my vessel is wearing, and I would then have to restore them or procure more, as there are laws in this country prohibiting public nudity. That would be very inconvenient."

"Okay. So, no setting fire to anything," said Dean, "Are we clear on that?"

"Perfectly clear." Castiel regarded the dog again. Max wuffed at him, sitting up and lifting a paw. "What exactly do you want me to do?"

"Get rid of him! Show him the way to go home! Get him out of here! Convince him he's dead!" ranted Dean, waving his arms, "Take him back to Heaven with you! All dogs are supposed to go to Heaven, right? So, take him walkies, and shut the gate behind you!" Dean looked at Castiel expectantly.

Castiel's expression did not change, but when he spoke, Sam could hear the anger.

"Dean Winchester, I am an Angel of The Lord, a Warrior of Heaven. I wage the war between the Throne of God and the Minions of Perdition, and you," Sam shuddered at the way he pronounced that word, "You, want me to ensure a dead dog gets to Heaven?"

"Yeah!" said Dean brightly. Castiel looked at him steadily.

"I am disappointed that you would waste my time like this. This is not a serious problem, Dean. It is beneath my attention. How could you have possibly thought that a dog's ghost – a well-dispositioned one, at that – could possibly warrant my intervention?"

Dean blinked, looking helplessly at Castiel. "Er…"

"He seems well-behaved, and he is well-trained," continued Castiel, as Max turned on the Sammy eyes again. "If you must have a ghost accompany you, you could do a lot worse than this one. He is trained in tracking. He might be an asset."

Dean swallowed. "You're saying… are you saying we should_ keep _him?"

"I'm saying that this problem does not warrant my attention. Do not bother me with such a trivial matter again."

Sam was struck by inspiration. "Castiel," he began, "You're right. We haven't done anything to explain the severity of the problem. We're sorry. Here," he proffered the bag of gingerbread, "Take one of these, and we will demonstrate to you exactly how bad the situation is."

Castiel did as he was bid, and examined the cookie closely. "It is a gingerbread cookie."

"Yes, it is, now you just..."

"It does not appear to be in any way demonic, possessed, occult or otherwise tainted with abomination."

"I understand that," said Sam, "Now you just..."

"There is nothing to be gained by my smiting the cookie." Castiel's tone indicated that he was firmly opposed to unnecessary smiting of innocent foodstuffs.

"The cookie is not important, just stand there." Sam walked away from Castiel to where Max sat, alertly watching the proceedings with great interest. Sam bent down and said in an excited voice,

"Look, Max, it's Castiel! Castiel! He wants to meet you! He LOVES dogs! Go meet him, Max, go meet Castiel! He's got something for you, he has a… COOKIE!" The dog had been getting steadily more excited as Sam spoke. On the last word, he woofed, and made one of his surprisingly sprightly dashes at Castiel.

"Sam, why is that dog…" Castiel's words were cut off as Max performed his leap-and-knockdown trick, landing on Castiel's chest, woofing and chewing at the cookie that the beleaguered angel still held. Right on cue, the disgusting smell began to emanate from Max.

"Sam, Dean, remove this dog from me," said Castiel, as Max finished the cookie, and began to kiss his face. "Remove it at once."

"Hang on, Cas," said Dean, "It's part of the demonstration." The smell intensified, as did Max's ectoplasmic drooling.

"This dog is salivating on me. Under the circumstances, that is a most unusual spectral manifestation," noted Castiel.

"It is, yes, yes, it definitely is," agreed Sam.

"Apparently this animal suffered from some chronic gastrointestinal disturbance prior to his death," announced Castiel, "He is extremely flatulent. His gut flora were clearly not healthily balanced, with inadequate Lactobacillus, perhaps. The smell is pungent, and most offensive."

"Oh, definitely," said Dean, nodding vigorously, "Very offensive. I'm being offended from here."

"This is… not pleasant, Sam," said Castiel, as Max continued to lick his face, "I wish this dog to stop lapping at my face like that. It is unhygienic. His saliva is astonishingly copious. I believe I just swallowed some."

"Yeah, that is kind of gross," said Sam.

"A considerable quantity of it appears to have gone up my vessel's nose."

"That must feel strange," sympathised Dean.

"It does. It is… uncomfortable." Castiel gasped and coughed. "Also, it is becoming difficult for my vessel to breathe, although I am not certain if it is because of the saliva or the severity of the dog's flatus." He wheezed. "I believe I may also have some dog hair in my mouth." He stuck out his tongue as if to try to examine it, and Max licked him again. Castiel reluctantly put his tongue back in. "Sam, please end your demonstration now."

Sam took another cookie from the bag, and called Max away. He made a stern face at Max. "Outside!" he said, proffering the cookie. Max took it gently, and disappeared obediently.

Castiel stood, and shook himself slightly, ridding himself of spectral slobber and hair. He turned to face the Winchesters.

"A confused dog's ghost is perhaps not an ideal hunting companion for you," he said slowly. "I will take him with me."

"Thank you, Cas," beamed Dean. "I hoped you'd see how serious this was."

"Yes. However, Sam, I believe that your demonstration was unnecessarily… authentic."

"Oh?" asked Sam, as Castiel cocked his head.

"It would have been sufficient to inform me of the physical manifestations of the dog's disposition and pre-mortem health problems."

"Really?"

"Yes. It was not necessary to let Max knock my vessel over, and potentially damage its health."

"Ah."

"The smell was really extremely offensive. Bordering on corrosive."

"True."

"My vessel is experiencing the urge to cough, and possibly to vomit, and its eyes are still watering."

"Oh."

"This is most inconvenient in the physical plane.'

"Sorry."

"Anyway," Dean broke in, in his most cheerful tone, "Why don't you and Mad Max just… head on home, and… we'll see you next time you have a paranormal cataclysm that demands our immediate attention?" He smiled brightly.

"Very well."

"So, how do we get Max to follow Cas to Heaven?" asked Sam, "Do you need another cookie?"

"No, no more cookies," replied Castiel quickly, "He is highly trained in obedience. I will call him to work." He faced the door, and used the Voice. "Max. Heel!"

Max appeared in the middle of the room, trotting towards Castiel. He walked behind the angel, sitting at his left side, his tail, as ever, wagging slightly.

"We will leave now. Goodbye." Castiel glanced down at Max. "Good dog. Heel!" There was the sound of a flap of wings, and he was gone, Max with him.

"Don't forget to shut the gates behind you!" shouted Dean at the ceiling. Sam sighed. Dean smirked at him. "Why don't you get cleaned up, Samantha, you look like you could use a drink."

"I probably could. But only if you promise not to spend the entire evening seeking feedback on your latest scheme to get back at Bobby."

"Killjoy."

* * *

TBC - because nothing is ever that simple, and Dean is yet to have his terrible revenge...


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you to the people who said such kind things about what is, let's face it, a terribly silly story. We are thundering towards a happy ending (well, as happy as you can get in the Supernatural verse, anyway). But first, some more silliness...

* * *

Chapter 8

Twenty minutes later, they were in the Impala, heading for a bar they'd seen on the way. Dean was in a cheerful mood, singing along with the stereo, and Sam was so relieved to be rid of Max the Gassy Ghost that he didn't even complain.

"Hey Mama, look at me, I'm on my way to the Promised LaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAARGH!" Dean's singing rose suddenly into a yelp as he caught sight of Castiel sitting in the rear view mirror. The car fishtailed to a stop on the wrong side of the road. Luckily there was no oncoming traffic.

"Dude!" Dean admonished the angel, pulling over onto the correct side, "Do you have to sneak up on people like that?"

"My apologies, Dean, Sam," said Castiel. Sam turned around, and thought that Castiel looked just a little… sheepish.

"Is something wrong, Castiel?" he asked.

"No. No. Yes. Max." replied Castiel tersely.

"Max? What? What about Max?" asked Dean anxiously. "Didn't you take him to Heaven with you?"

"Yes, I did."

"Well, what's wrong?" pressed Sam, deciding that yes, Castiel definitely looked sheepish.

"He… ran away."

"Ran away? You took a dog to Heaven, and he _ran away_?" Dean was incredulous. Sam emitted a strangled noise and let his head fall forward to the dash. "How could he 'run away' from Heaven? Hey, didn't I tell you to shut the gates behind you?"

"The Pearly Gates do not actually exist as a physical barrier to egress in the sense that you understand a gate to function," explained Castiel, "Heaven is not a prison. I use the term 'ran away' as an approximation that your limited human understanding can comprehend. The Gates are a metaphor, or an allegory, if you will, for the concept of pausing to consider one's conduct, and having one's life and soul judged. You may recall the parable of the sheep and the goats…"

"Yeah, yeah, enough with the Sunday school, Cas," said Dean impatiently, "What actually happened?"

Castiel paused thoughtfully. "It is… difficult to explain how Max's absence came to pass, in terms that you would understand," he said finally.

"All right, well, use a metaphor, or an allegory, if you will," Dean sneered back, "To explain to us ignorant, limited humans how Max's absence came to pass."

Castiel considered this for a long moment, finally coming up with:

"He… dug a hole under the fence and got out."

Dean blinked. "There's a fence around Heaven?"

Sam hit his head against the dash again, mumbling something that might've been "Kill me now…"

At that moment, Dean's phone went off. Gritting his teeth, he looked at it. It was Bobby. The evening just kept getting better and better…

"What are you idjits playing at?" demanded the old Hunter without preamble. "Can I not even trust you with a simple salt and burn?"

"Hi, Bobby, it's good to talk to you, too," said Dean wearily.

"Yeah, well, you'd better start talkin', son," growled Bobby, "Because I've just had a call from Lucy Dorsch. Her dog, her dead dog, the dead dog I sent you to salt and burn, is sitting in her kitchen, schmoozing gingerbread!"

"Er, yeah, about that, we've hit a slight technical hitch, Bobby…"

"Well, you just haul your sorry carcasses back over there, and unhitch your slight technical hitch, boy, right after you call Lucy and apologize for your screw-up!"

"Yeah, will do, Bobby, we're on it," he sighed, closing the phone.

"What are we going to do, Dean?" asked Sam in a plaintive voice. "I have no idea what to do. How do we convince a dog he's supposed to go to Heaven, if he just doesn't want to go?"

"Had you considered trying to find out why he does not want to go?" asked Castiel. Both the Winchesters turned to look at him.

"Er, no, Cas, we hadn't considered that, since you ask," replied Dean, in a tone that indicated to Sam that his big brother was getting ready to explode.

"Why not?" And Cas had just lit the fuse.

"Oh, I don't know, could it be something to do with him being…_ a dog_? You know, an _animal_ that doesn't actually speak _English, _or in fact _any _human language? 'Cause I'm pretty sure that even if you're fluent in German, he's not going to..."

"Hang on, Dean, Cas could be onto something," said Sam, thoughtfully. "We know that sometimes ghosts hang around when they have some sort of unfinished business, something that's important to them. Maybe that's what happened with Max."

"What, so now you're suggesting that we go Ghost Dog Whispering?" asked Dean, wondering if his little brother had finally cracked completely. "You want to talk to a dead dog? Do I look like the love child of Jennifer Love Hewitt and Cesar Millan to you?"

"Perhaps you should try it," suggested Castiel, "He certainly likes you, Dean, you remind him of his alpha's mate, and Sam reminds him of their second pup, the one that died. That's probably why he followed you when he could." The Winchesters stared at the angel.

"What?" asked Dean.

"He means Lucy's husband," clarified Sam, "Charlie. Lucy is Max's alpha – she raised and trained him. Charlie was Lucy's mate. And Lucy said she'd seen a son into the ground – he must've been fond of Max, and Max apparently was fond of him, too."

"And you didn't think to tell us before now that you could talk to dogs, Cas, because…?" prompted Dean.

"I cannot 'talk', as you mean it, to dogs," replied Castiel, "But these were very strong feelings. Pack – family – means everything to a dog. The pack is security, and stability, and happiness. Max was a very happy dog." Castiel paused. "I also received the distinct impression that he was hoping for a ride in the car."

Dean's face drained of colour. "No... he wouldn't... he can't appear in my baby, he can't! He'll stain the seats! I'll never get the drool out! The smell! The smell will be permanent! MY CAR WILL SMELL LIKE FARTING DEAD DOG FOREVER! Nooooooooo..." his voice dropped to a strangled, desperate moan. "Sam," he rasped brokenly, "You have to think of something, you have to think of something, Sam, before he comes back, not my baby, not my baby..."

Sam had the distracted expression that meant he was working something out. "Dean," he said thoughtfully, "Did Bobby leave you Lucy's number?"

Dean didn't seem to hear him; he just slumped over the wheel, rocking back and forth slightly, keening quietly to himself.

"Dean? Dean!" Sam gave his brother an experimental prod. "Dean, I think I have... DEAN!" He slapped his brother's head. "I think I have an idea!"

Dean turned eyes swimming with desperate hope onto Sam - _oh God_, thought Sam, _he looks just like Max watching a cookie_ - "You... you do?" he stuttered, sounding like a child who's just been told that there might actually be some ice-cream left after all, and it's could even be chocolate chip.

"Yeah, I do. Did Bobby leave Lucy's number? I need to talk to her. I think I might know what the problem is…"

* * *

Can Sam figure out a fix before Max comes back? Because dogs love a ride in the car. And we'd hate to see Dean cry - nobody wants that, right?


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Sam made a phone call to Lucy, and spent some time speaking to her. She was not surprised by his theory – in fact, she had inadvertently already begun making arrangements some time previously.

The next day they headed back the way they'd come. Dean kept a cannister of salt within arm's reach at all times. The bag of gingerbread turned out to be extremely useful; eating it kept Dean quiet, and each time he had a small panic attack at the thought of a drooling, farting, and above all dead dog suddenly appearing in his car, he had something close to hand to hyperventilate into.

They kicked around town for a couple of days, Sam nerding it up at the library, Dean eating gingerbread (like Max), making sad noises when his gingerbread was rationed (like Max) and chasing tail (not his own, unlike Max). When they got the call from Lucy, they headed back to her place.

As she opened the door to greet them, a smell assaulted their noses.

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, he's done it again," she began, "He did it when he heard you coming to the door, he's just so excitable…" As she spoke, a small black and tan furball streaked across the floor, barrelling into Sam's legs. It stopped, shook itself, and looked up at them.

Dean bent down to scratch the floppy ears. "So, who's this?"

"Zandrac Fallen Angel, all nine weeks of him," she said, "Also known as Samael. At least, he will be when he learns to come when he's called… Sam! Sam! Leave it!" she admonished the pup, as it started to chew on the hem of Sam's jeans, growling determinedly. "I only brought him home this morning, and he's been getting into everything. Just like Max did at that age." Dean looked up at his brother with hilarity on his face._ Sam?_ He mouthed, grinning.

"Speaking of Max…?" prompted Sam, pointedly ignoring his brother's teasing.

"Oh, he's hanging around, you know, you can tell…" as Lucy spoke, a familiar pungent aroma suddenly overwhelmed the smell of a puppy's accident. Max appeared in the middle of the sitting room, tail wagging and old eyes dancing.

Sam the pup watched, entranced, and yipped at the old dog's ghost, trotting over and stretching up to sniff noses. Max made gentle whuffling noises. Lucy smiled.

"I held off getting another one, you know," she remarked, "When Max kept popping up, I thought it would be best to wait until he'd moved on. Silly of me, in hindsight."

"I think he was just worried about you," said Sam, "When he died, from his point of view, you were left alone, without any 'pack' any more. That's why he stayed around, and kept dropping in."

"Well, hopefully, now he's met the new kid on the block, he'll get the hint that his job here is done," said Dean, "Right Max?" At his name, Max looked up, sat and lifted a paw.

"Go on now, for real this time," Lucy urged him, smiling fondly, "Go find the rest of the pack, you stinky old fool. Go find Charlie! Go find Carl! Go home! Good boy!"

Barking excitedly, Max turned, and started to run. He headed through the kitchen, gathering speed, his barking and his form fading out, until when he hit the back door, he had disappeared. The truly appalling stench that had accompanied him dissipated completely. The pup turned his attention back to the hem of Sam's jeans.

"I wonder if they have gingerbread in doggy Heaven?" mused Dean.

"If they do, I hope they have charcoal biscuits, too," commented Lucy, disengaging the pup from his denim prey, "It exacerbated his tummy trouble something terrible."

"I think in doggy Heaven, you can probably eat as much gingerbread as you like, and never feel sick," decided Sam, "And you have all the Honky Ducks you can chew on."

"Speaking of which," said Lucy, pulling a rubber chicken toy from behind the sofa, "If you two could keep him occupied for me, I'll make us some coffee."

….. oOo …..

An hour later, the Winchesters disengaged puppy Sam from human Sam's trousers one last time, and set off back to South Dakota, Dean laden with what looked to Sam like a month's supply of gingerbread and apple tarts. For any normal person, anyway; it would probably last Dean about four days, but it was a lot of gingerbread nonetheless.

"What, Sam?" said Dean, seeing his brother look at him with suspicion when they finally pulled off the road and into the yard. "You okay, bro, or have you been overcome by the power of my awesomeness?"

"No," said Sam, "I'm just wondering what you're up to."

"Me? Up to?" Dean was all bewildered innocence.

"Yes. Up to. You haven't said a word about incontinent cats, hiring skunks or giving chapacubras the runs since we left Lucy's. Which makes me think you've made up your mind to do something to Bobby."

"I'm shocked, Sam, shocked and hurt that you'd think that," said Dean sadly, "You were right, I was being childish." Sam's face indicated that he wasn't buying any of it. "What, a guy can't change his mind? Look, you were right, okay, no harm done, the job's finished, my baby is safe, dog is in his Heaven, and at Lucy's place at least, all's as right with the world as it can be, for now. And seeing Cas get molested by a flatulent dog's ghost? Totally awesome, Sammy, that was inspired!" Sam was not impressed. "Come on, Sam, how stupid did I sound? There's no such thing as rent-a-skunk, right? And the ASPCA would complain if I put a cat in Bobby's room." He brought the car to a stop. "And, I hope you noticed that I didn't touch a single piece of the gingerbread that Lucy sent for Bobby."

"Dean, you've been eating gingerbread pretty much since we left Lucy's…"

"This is some that she made and packed up especially for Bobby, and I haven't touched it," said Dean, "Chocolate frosting, Sam, it's got chocolate frosting. Now, if I wanted to get back at him, wouldn't I have eaten the lot before we left Montana?" He rolled his eyes at Sam. "Come on, let's get inside, I got a feeling that Bobby would like to laugh at us up close and personal."

Sam glared at him across the roof of the car. "Dean," he said stern voice, "I want you to promise me, PROMISE me, that you are not going to let any animals loose in Bobby's house as some sort of stupid payback, just because you got slobbered on by a ghost."

"Sammy," said Dean in a serious voice, "I promise, I will not let loose any animals or creatures or beings, domestic or wild, known to science or not, dead alive or in-between, healthy or otherwise, in Bobby's house, Bobby's yard, or Bobby's general vicinity. Cross my heart and hope to make out with a dead dog. Would you like any further clauses added to that, Mr Lawyer?"

"Okay, that'll do. Let's get inside." Sam hefted his bag, threw Dean a last warning look, and headed for the house.

Dean picked up his own bag, and Bobby's gingerbread, then followed his brother, carefully wiping the smirk from his face. Of course he had no intention of releasing an animal in Bobby's house.

Why mess around with an animal?

It had been messy, but the half hour he had spent grinding up laxative pills, stirring them into the chocolate icing and carefully coating the gingerbread cookies had been totally worth it.

THE END


End file.
